TAKING MY TIME

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Elizabeth Willis Barrett……….March 2016

I asked a friend the other day why I just can’t seem to get anything done.  The kids are gone.  I don’t work in the regular sense of having to get ready and drive to a job.  Of course, the fact that we’ve moved after thirty-seven years of living in the same wonderful house might have something to do with it, since there are boxes of accumulated stuff that begs to be brought into the light and given a permanent new home.   She commiserated and then gave the answer:  “Electronics.”

“Electronics?”  Odd answer, till I let my addled brain soak it in for a bit.  She could be right.  Electronics have hip bumped their way into nearly everything I do.  It has been interesting to contemplate how much time I could devote to other things if I were to totally delete electronics from my life.  For instance, I listen to lots of books in a month.  It takes time to go to the library to search for books on CD.  Then I have to download them to my computer and then upload (?) them to my phone.  Or, since I have gotten pretty tech savvy, I go to Overdrive on my phone and choose books from there.  But still, it takes time to decide and to put some books on hold and some books on a wish list.  And when listening, it takes time to “rewind” often to see what I missed because my mind wandered.  A great deal of time is also used up untangling my headset.  Don’t know how that happens.  The simple solution to this time crunching dilemma would be to quit listening to books.  But I am hooked and have found my “weed of read.”

Texting takes a vast amount of time from me.  I am a one finger texter even after practicing the two thumb method that even Brad has mastered.  It’s no good.  I can’t move out of the one finger slow lane. Then I have to re-read and re-text what I’ve written to make sure my real meaning has come through.  Phoning would be so much easier.  That used to be when I got all my tedious work done—when having a great conversation on the phone.  You can’t scrub toilets while you’re texting.

I really don’t watch much TV.  The final episode of Downton Abby has aired and I haven’t even watched it yet!  Do not tell me what happens! Thanks.  But when I finally do want to watch something in particular on TV, I have to relearn how to get it in the right input, look for the right channel out of about 300 and find the right remote for the sound bar.  It takes time.  Much more time than simply walking up to the TV to turn it on, raise the volume and find the right channel out of four.

Facebook takes time.  I just want to scroll through quickly to see if anyone has gotten married or died and invariably I will get sucked in by a “Watch this, you won’t believe it!” line.  Then that site takes me to another.  I mean, who could possibly pass up the opportunity to know what has happened to former child stars or how to tighten saggy skin?  Those things are very important to one’s social standing.   Then, because Brad and I have our computers on the kitchen table for our constant perusal,  he tells me of indispensable knowledge he has learned, and I am double whammied with imperative information.  All very time-consuming.

And speaking of Brad: the day is fraught with “Where’s the_______________?” and “How do you______________?” and “Will you please________________?”  I just get going on a project like riding full speed on a bicycle when those questions throw me off course like a stick in the spokes.  To be fair, I do the same to him and he is much more patient than I, but many minutes are spent in the answering.

Soft water has nothing to do with electronics, but I have found that it takes forever to wash soap off with soft water.  I spend way too much time in the shower trying to get the same feeling I used to get with hard water.  I will conquer that idiocy soon.

Another thing that takes too much valuable time is deciding what to do when.  Or standing in my crowded closet  trying to determine the best choice of apparel.  I think my brain is running in molasses mode while my ambitions are tumbling over themselves in a water fall.

I always assumed that when the kids were finally grown, that time would be in great abundance.  I thought I would have ample hours to pursue all my interests with lots left over to wallow in luxuriantly.  I was wrong.

Perhaps the world is spinning faster, pressed on by an impatient God eager to get this phase of His creation over with.  Perhaps my body and mind are just slowing way down so that it looks like the world is spinning faster.  Perhaps I should just enjoy every day with its allotted minutes and quit taking so much time to analyze everything.

Well, it’s time to get back to my To-Do List.  Maybe I should start calling it “To Don’t.”

HUMBLE PIE

Elizabeth Willis Barrett……….February 2016

Well, I’ve had another taste of humble pie.  Have you ever tasted it?  No? How could I describe it?  Bitter?  Grainy?  Unpalatable?  It is thoroughly disgusting.  It might taste like crow.  I think they’re similar.  When it comes to pie, I much prefer coconut cream.  Since coconut isn’t allowed in our house because of Brad’s strong aversion to it, I don’t get that kind very often.  But apple pie—at least Sam’s Club apple pie with the beautiful pastry lattice work—is a close second if warmed a little and piled with a great vanilla ice cream.

But back to humble pie.  I’ve had to eat it a few times lately and I still haven’t developed a taste for it.  The last serving came on Friday.  Because Brad was so concerned about me after I received the traffic ticket, he was going to be my ally and get to the bottom of Policeman X’s rudeness.  He called the commanding officer and a few others at the top.  Fortunately, those higher ups were busy and couldn’t get back to him.

Our very good friend Officer B came over, however, taking some valuable time from his beat.  All policeman carry video cameras so all of their doings are recorded just for the likes of me.  Before Officer B sat at our kitchen table, he had watched the video of the police officer giving me the ticket. I thought, of course, that he would tell me how misused I had been and how sorry he felt for me and that Officer X could have handled things much better.

He didn’t.  In fact, he said that he would have done and said the same things if it had been him giving me the ticket, excepting that he would have lightened up a bit just because he knows me. I learned a lot.  Because I made such a public fuss and according to Officer B was in the wrong, I feel a need to tell you what Officer B taught me in case an officer stops you on his way to keeping Gilbert safe:

—Most traffic cops give out about 40 tickets a day. I was just one of many.

—Officer X was not upset with me.  He was just doing his job.

—He was not rude or overly unpleasant.  That was my perception.

—You cannot get out of the car when you’ve been pulled over, even if a grandson is waiting.

—Police also have to protect themselves and don’t know if you are a harmless grandmother or a pistol totin’ one.

—It is routine to do a background check on everyone pulled over.

—Most people do not pull over where the officer tells them to.  They try to find a more suitable spot and once in a while that turns out to be a very dangerous place for the officer.

Officer B offered to take me in his patrol car any time I want to get a feel for all a policeman has to contend with.  He said a Friday night would be the most exciting.  Although a wild police ride would be a unique thing to add to my bucket list, I’m a little too wimpy to schedule it just yet.  It was a very generous offer though.

Gilbert Police Force, you’re doing a great job.  Carry on!  I’ll try to quit impeding your progress.  And someone—pass the pie—coconut, please.

A COP CAPER

A COP CAPER

Elizabeth Willis Barett…………..January 2016

I’ve always liked the Gilbert police.  Not that I’ve had lots of run-ins with policemen, but when you’re working with a drug addict or have a minor traffic infraction, you have to speak to them once in a while.   On the whole, I have found them to be incredibly sensitive, friendly and helpful.  Until yesterday.  I now have something to recount to a judge and maybe he will require some changes in the force.

I was on my way to pick up my little three year old grandson from his pre-school class at Gilbert Elementary School.  He is a little doll baby and I love to see his face light up when he sees that it is me picking him up.  I don’t get to do it very often.  I was looking forward to the experience, but because of one very callous police officer, I don’t think I’ll have enough courage to pick him up from school ever again as long as I live—which might not be long.

I was almost to the school when I saw a police car on the other side of Elliot road just waiting for me.  And of course I was rushing a bit since I didn’t want to be late and have poor Maddix just stand there wondering who would be picking him up.  Sure enough, the policeman—whose name I should really say here just to keep you from thinking badly of any other well mannered and helpful Gilbert Policeman, but I won’t since he already is mad at me—was totally aware of my infraction.  And he was not going to let me get away with it.

He whipped his car down and around and behind me in seconds.  Those lights went whirring around and I pulled over immediately like you’re supposed to do.  Looking through the rear view mirror, I saw that the man was pointing for me to go forward and pull into the school.  So I did.  If you’ve ever been to Greenfield Elementary, you know that it is pretty crowded in there.  It didn’t occur to me to pull forward in front of the school which has never had any space when I’ve been there before, so I turned to the right and drove up and around the round-a-bout so Maddix’s teacher would see me and bring me the child before he felt abandoned.  The whirring red lights followed me around the round-a-about.  He didn’t feel the need to turn them off to keep my embarrassment from bursting from every one of my sorry pores.

Mr. Policeman came up to my window just as I was going to get out so Maddix could see that I was there.

“Stay in your car!” he demanded.  He must have thought I was trying for a quick get-a-way.

“I’ve got to get my grandson,” I countered.

It was raining, by the way.   This melancholy happening matched the weather.

“You don’t get to do what you want.” My public service officer threw that at me like I was always used to getting my way.

“I was just going to get my boy so he wouldn’t be afraid.”

“You are being stopped by a policeman and you don’t get to do what you want. You shouldn’t have driven in here.  You should have stopped in front of the school.”

I didn’t holler back that there was no room in front of the school and I needed to pick up my grandson.  I was very calm and even though tears were very close to slipping, I kept them in check and kept calm.

“You can’t just do things so that you aren’t inconvenienced,” he continued.  I think if he had had a paddle, he would have used it on me.

“I was just trying to get my grandson.”

“He could wait.  You can’t just do what you want when you’re being stopped by a policeman.”

Whew.  He said that about three times.  I like to think of myself as a very intelligent person.  I usually get things on the first go round.  Maybe he felt humiliated that I made him go in the parent pick-up circle.  Maybe he thought that I thought it would be funny to be followed around by a police car flashing its spectacular red light.  He didn’t know that this woman was lacking in humor at the moment.  And there was no where else to go.  He’s the one who told me to turn into the school.  Where did he want me to stop?  There wasn’t room anywhere.  And besides, I repeat, I needed to pick up Maddix.

“Give me your registration and insurance card.”

I’m not a swearer.  I’ve never sworn out loud unless it was by mere accident due to a mouth mal-function.  My older grandkids can hold that one over me.  But I will admit that as I leaned across to reach the glove compartment in an attempt to retrieve the latest registration and insurance info, an unattractive word came out in a whisper.  I think the situation called for it.

I grabbed all the papers that looked promising as the right ones and handed them to him.

“These have expired,”  he said.  Then he told me to sit still while he checked on something.  Probably to see if I was on the wanted list.

While he went back to his car, I was able to wave down Maddix’s teacher whose one hand held Maddix and the other held an umbrella. She looked as disgusted as the police officer.  Maddix wasn’t looking too happy either.

“Maddix’s mom didn’t say you were coming today.”  Her voice was as deadpan as her face.  I was needing a sympathetic smile from her.  Some commiseration.  An “I’ve been in your shoes before” kind of look.  But no.  She said nothing more as she put Maddix in the back seat.  Finally realizing that I wasn’t allowed to get out of the car and therefore couldn’t buckle him in, she reluctantly did the job for me.  No “goodbye.”  No “good luck.” No “I’m so sorry for your plight.”

When Officer He Who Cannot Be Named came back with my license and my expired insurance paper, he told me he was giving me a ticket.  (No, duh!) And that I had three choices:  pay it, go to traffic school (yet again??), or meet with the judge.  I think this time I will meet with the judge.  I just want to tell him that this man was very inconsiderate of a little boy that needed me and was extremely condescending to a grandmother who was trying her best to be compliant.

I really think that if I had opened my door once more or gotten a tiny bit irate as some would have done, the officer would have whipped out his gun and ordered me face down on the wet sidewalk.  I don’t think I would have ever recovered from that.  Neither would he.

Just so he knows what he could do better the next time he finds himself in a like circumstance, here are some suggestions:

 

1.  Smile

2.  Laughingly say, “Wow, I didn’t know I’d have to follow you into the parent pickup circle!  You’re a hard one to catch.”

3.  Allow the person to retrieve her grandson before the child gets scared that he will be left there all night with a teacher who is obviously in a bad mood.  (who wouldn’t be after a few hours with a class of preschoolers on a rainy day.)

4.  Then, with some regret, issue the ticket, making sure the person knows that you would rather not give the ticket, but after all, they were speeding in a school zone which you are sure they feel very badly about.

5.  Leave the criminal with some dignity.

All the way home, Maddix was silent, except to answer my questions with “Don’t talk to me!”  He didn’t want to be friendly with a criminal either.  No telling where that would get him.

Thank goodness for another grandchild.  When my ten year old granddaughter texted me about my day, I told her it was a sad day because I had gotten pulled over by a policeman.

“Well, at least you didn’t go to jail,” was her optimistic reply.  She finished with, “I wish I could come over and give you a big hug!”

Thank you, Claire.  That is exactly what I needed!

 

WORDS, WORDS, WORDS

Elizabeth Willis Barrett………………December 2015

I love words.  Perhaps they, more than love, make the world go round.  People who speak my same language, including those in my own family, say some words differently.  It makes me cautious because I don’t want to say a word that someone else might think I have pronounced or used incorrectly.  The fear of being wrong is right up there with my fear of turning left. No….it isn’t that I fear being wrong.  What I fear is being wrong with an overbearing attitude of being right.  I would rather give myself some wiggle room to be wrong in and let others know that I know that I could possibly be wrong in the given situation.  I don’t like know-it-alls and have probably taken my turn at that role a few times.  Rather than play that part again, I’d rather get off the stage.  I will leave the role of Know-It-All to the narcissists of the world of which I think I know three.

My mom used to call a camera a “Kodak.”  I cringed every time she said it because it sounded way too close to “Kotex” for me.  That word conjures up some negative vibes that I’d rather not rile.

That’s probably how my kids feel when I negligently call flip flops “thongs.”  Or when Brad sings his elementary school alma mater song:  “Noble School will always mean to me…. lots of joy and pleasant memories.  All the boys and girls they say…. down at Noble School are gay………..”

The other day I asked one of my grandkids if she had seen a certain movie at the show house.  “What’s a show house?” she asked.  “You know,” I said, “a show house.  You don’t know what a show house is?  A theater.”   “Oh,” she said.  I realized that again my age was pushing past my great desire for youth and waving its purple handkerchief.  (I also put my shirt on backwards this morning which was quite disconcerting.)

Theater is a word that can be pronounced differently.  Sometimes I say “thee-A-ter” and sometimes I say “THEE-a-ter.”  Sometimes I say “en-velope” with a short e at the beginning and sometimes I say “on-velope” with a short o.  I say “creek”.  Some say “crick.”  I say “wash.”  Some say “warsh.”  I say “carmel.”  Some say “car-a-mel.”  I certainly don’t say “kinnygarten” for “kindergarten” as some do.  Nor do I say “patriartical” for “patriarchal.”  Or “pray-ers” for “prayers.”  Neither do I say “alunamun” for “aluminum” or “nucular” for “nuclear” as one of our leaders tends to do.

Some say “boo-tique” while I say “bo-tique” with a long o.  “Data” always trips me up.  Is it a long a or a short a? It makes me avoid that word.  “Route” is tricky, too.  I say “root” 66 but paper “rowt.”  I say “gala” with a long a but the gala aficionados seem to say “gala” with a short a.  Some might even say “gawla.”  I don’t hang with gala people much so I’m not too worried about my gala pronunciation.

It seems acceptable to say either (ī-ther or ee-ther) “nee-ther” or “nī-ther.”  I’m an “ee-ther”/“nee-ther” sayer.  I say “Q-pon” not “coo-pon” for “coupon.”  And “ca-fé” not “cá-fe.”  I say “en-chiladas” with a short e not “onchiladas” with a short o.  I say “a-pricot” with a long a not “a-pricot” with a short a.

There is a song by George Gershwin called “Let’s Call the Whole Thing Off.”  A couple of lines say:  “you like tomatoes, I like tomatoes.” “you like potatoes, I like potatoes.” Which would be a pretty stupid song if you didn’t know that the first “tomatoes” was pronounced  “tō-may-toes” and the second was pronounced “tō-mah-toes.”  Same with “potatoes.”  One of my daughter’s roommates sang the whole song pronouncing the words the same.  Which, of course, made it a pretty stupid song.

When I was in grade school and the teacher called roll, which is probably a very out-dated procedure, some of the kids would say “president” instead of “present.”  I would just say “here” and marvel that kids would actually be dumb enough to think the other word was “president” instead of “present.”  Those were some of my Know-it-All days.  I was pretty smart then.  My knowledge base has shrunk a bit and what’s left to know has ballooned immensely.  I don’t feel quite as smart as I did as a Third Grader.

“Crayon” is a tricky word.  I’ve said “cren” most of my life.  One of my grandsons says “cran” so I don’t feel too backward.  I’m trying to switch over to “cray-on” which is the obvious way to pronounce it.

Some of my kids have turned their backs on their upbringing and now say “man-aise” instead of “may-naise.”  I don’t get that one.  Nor can I understand how they could possibly prefer Miracle Whip.

Finally I can use the words “interment” and “internment” in the right contexts.  That took a while.  Those words are not interchangeable.  I think I understand the correct use of “further” and “farther” and try not too mix them up too often.  But “from” and “than” are still messing with me.  And once I ordered “brawts” instead of “brats” with a short a.  I won’t do that again.

Three words I try hard to pronounce a certain way are “diabetes” and “poem” and “egg.” When I say “dīa-bee-tees” my son gives me a stare and says the word is “dīa-bee-tus.”  Or else he says it the first way and I say it the second way.  I can’t remember.  I have to ask him every time that horrendous disease comes up.  I have almost cured myself of saying “āgg” instead of “egg.”  And I grew up saying “poym.”  Didn’t you?  Now I try very hard to pronounce the word “pō-em” with a quick short e .

Speaking correctly is rather tiring but I don’t want to seem anything but brilliant in front of my children.  It’s getting harder and harder.

HALLOWEEN? SCARY!

Elizabeth Willis Barrett………………November 1, 2015

I need to add to my list of disliked holidays.   I have made it very clear that I am less than a lover of Christmas.  I’ve said it so much that people who I didn’t think were aware of my idiosyncrasy, have become a bit confrontational.   I will probably have to write more on that subject since we’re now in November.  But today I will talk about my least favorite of all holidays:  Halloween.  For many, Halloween is their all time favorite holiday, even embracing it more than Christmas.  I don’t understand it, but I realize it.

Last night I HAD to go to a Halloween party.  A HUGE one.  Probably about 1500 Young Adults in an unsuspecting park.  We couldn’t even go late because our car was used for Trunk or Treat and had to be decorated. At least I didn’t have to do the decorating.  Plus, we figured we’d have to stay until the bitter end because of the same dilemma—our trunk was needed.  Young Adult hours are considerably later than Old Adult hours, so I was bracing for a late night of wandering and schmoozing.  Brad is a great schmoozer.  I am not.

Since we had just returned from a two day outing with some of those Young Adults and hadn’t slept the long and peaceful sleep of the undisturbed, I was anxious to give up Halloween all together and crawl into my own dependable bed for a long hybernation.  But no, I had to quick get into some kind of Halloween costume and hurry over to yet another gathering.

I have one go-to Halloween costume that takes no elaborate preparing, makeup or clothing.  Well, two.  I was going to wear a gray sweatsuit but I must have packed it when we crazily got the notion of selling this house and moving—more on that another time.  So I just wore black pants and a black shirt and safety-pinned socks all over me.  I went as “static cling.”  I don’t know who first thought of that as a costume.  Probably someone else who hates Halloween and wanted to get to some party with the least amount of preparation.

It is a little hard to “static cling” yourself, but Brad was busy trying to get ready and I didn’t want to ask him to stop and help me.  He has a floppy hat and some fake glasses that hold a fake mustache so he thought he was in great shape costume-wise.  Unfortunately, he had packed his glasses at the same time I was packing up my sweatsuit so he had to scramble for a costume.  Quickly he chose my second go-to costume: a ham sandwich.  This was a little difficult to create since I had also packed up the construction paper that would have provided all the colors we needed to turn him into a memorable ham sandwich.  But I hadn’t yet packed a roll of butcher paper and thankfully found a roll of green plastic table covering that hadn’t yet been included in the packing frenzy.  I cut out two pieces of bread from the brown butcher paper and two lettuce leaves from the green plastic and quickly safety-pinned them to Brad—a piece of bread and lettuce leaf in front and a piece of bread and lettuce leaf in back.  At least the ham was authentic.  He would also have made a believable bologna sandwich.

 

We finally got to the party.  Once again I found myself climbing to the side of the minority.  Of the 1500 gallivanting through the park in their very clever costumes, most looked like they had a love affair going on with my un-beloved holiday.  Halloween was well honored and celebrated.  And to be fair, I had a very good time visiting with friends and commenting on superb creativity.

I like my life.  I like what I do.  I have always considered time to be a very precious commodity and I’m heading to the scarce end of it.  The thought of taking valuable time to decorate the house with ghoulish specters or to dream up time-consuming costumes just doesn’t sound very inviting.  I’d rather take the time to practice photography, or practice writing or practice my “just the right size” guitar.  And now that Halloween is over, it will only be minutes before the need to prepare for Christmas will be hollering at us from every direction.  Aaaaaaaaaa!

I give thanks for the welcomed holiday in between—Thanksgiving.  My favorite.  I’m with my family—the absolutely most important people in the whole world—for an un-pressured  day of good food and gratitude.   And all Thanksgiving asks of me is some beautiful fall leaves and one huge, delicious meal……Plus lots and lots of thanks.  I’m up for that.

 

 

GUILTY PLEASURES

Elizabeth Willis Barrett……………….May 2015

On Sunday May 10th, with an expectation of separation anxiety,  I DVRd the final episode of Revenge—the last of eighty-nine episodes played out in four seasons.  That’s eighty-nine hours or almost a solid half week—-half a week of my life muddled in the revengeful Hampton drama of Emily and Victoria and all their cronies.  Half a week that could have been used for practicing the ukulele, taking dinner to a new Mom or going to the gym.  (Not that that would ever happen!) And it was delightful!

Because Sundays are quite busy and probably not the best day for blood and vengeance, I would usually watch that week’s episode on Monday.  Rather, I always watched that episode on Monday.  I couldn’t wait any longer to see what was going to happen.  After Brad left the house for the Welcome Home Ranch or to meet with NAU interns, I’d fix myself something delicious like toast and peanut butter and strawberry freezer jam.  Then I’d shut all the blinds, partly so I could see the TV screen better but mostly so any unanticipated visitor wouldn’t catch me in this guilty pleasure and assume that I watch murder and mayhem in all my free moments.  Then I would watch without taking my eyes off the TV.  I didn’t want to miss one word said by Nolan or one movement made by Margaux or any of the other characters who played their parts to perfection. Living in these times has a lot of perks and re-winding might be close to the top of the list.

I made an exception for the last Revenge episode since I waited till Tuesday to watch it so a group of friends could watch the finale together.  The delay was hard but worth it. Having friends to share interest, insight and emotion just made the last Revenge chapter even better.  Unlike the disappointing final episode of Lost, my last and only other marathon series except for the essential Downton Abbey, the writers of Revenge ended their extravaganza of retribution in a completely satisfying way and even added a touch of schmaltz.  I loved it!

If time and family and other goals had no bearing on my life, I would start at the very beginning and watch the whole thing all over again while eating Flancer’s “It’s About Thyme” sandwiches and Paradise Bakery’s macadamia nut cookies.  Now that would be a mega guilty pleasure!

And as long as I’m confessing to guilty pleasures, I could add that I love to read People magazines where I get my hair cut to see what the stars are wearing and doing.  But I probably should just keep that to myself.

HOW DO YOU FEEL?

Elizabeth Willis Barrett……………..May 2015

When I was in High School I played the violin in the school orchestra.  I don’t think I was ever first chair but perhaps I had that honor for a week or two.  Back then not many were taking private violin lessons so the competition wasn’t so great.  Our foreign exchange student Rafael from Italy played the violin, too.

One day Jack Benny came to town.  For those of you much younger and unknowledgeable about historic stars, Jack Benny was a comedienne and entertainer.  He died in 1974 so you might have missed him.  In some of his acts, he played the violin, albeit badly, for comedic effect.  For some reason Rafael and I were asked to have our picture taken with him because we, too, played the violin.  Perhaps because we didn’t play so well, either.  I don’t know.

I wish I were a rememberer of details so I could tell a more accurate and spellbinding story.  But I don’t remember where we were for the picture.  I’m sure Jack Benny didn’t come to Westwood High School for this marvelous opportunity.  Unfortunately I don’t remember much about this significant event in my life except that I was having a bad hair day—which is always a thing to remember—and that this picture made it into the Mesa Tribune, the local newspaper.  If I were in total control of my faculties and scrapbooks, I would scan the picture for you.

But most of all—and this is what my point is—I remember how Jack Benny made me feel.  He didn’t smile.  He cared nothing for Raphael or me.  He wasn’t interested in us.  We were the little people and he was the star and he was putting up with this photo shoot because for some reason he had to.  For all the times he had made people laugh and for all of his fame and most likely great wealth—although he always joked about pinching pennies—he didn’t know how to treat the people that didn’t matter to him.

Just last week I had a similar experience.  I was very lucky to be able to attend an event where Deepak Chopra was the keynote speaker.  For those of you who haven’t heard of Deepak Chopra, he is a prolific writer, speaker and New Age guru.  We were also in the pre-luncheon group that met for a question and answer session with him.  His answers were wise and insightful as he stood before us in his loose jeans, red tennis shoes and Indian shirt which may or may not be called a kurta.  Since we were at a ribbon cutting for a wonderful new drug rehab facility, some of the questions were asked by concerned parents of newly reformed drug addicts.  Dr. Chopra knew so much and talked about the importance of ………..of……………  I don’t remember what he said!  And maybe this is why:

That night was a final gathering with wonderful food and company.  I saw Dr. Chopra sitting at a table surrounded by adoring fans.  When some of them left his side and it looked like he might be uncomfortably alone for a moment, I hesitantly approached him to ask my question.

“Dr. Chopra, do one of your books address the problems of addiction?”

He looked at me like I was intruding on his transcendental  meditation.  Without a smile, a greeting, or any gesture of welcome, he simply answered in a very dead pan voice:

“Overcoming Addiction.”

There was nothing for me to do but say a meek “thank you” and go stand in the non-alcoholic cocktail line.

Maybe I was asking too much.  Maybe I had looked forward to meeting him for too long and had imagined a much warmer encounter.  Maybe I am just way too sensitive.  But the guy has written approximately eighty-two books with titles that include The Seven Spiritual Laws of Success and The Ultimate Happiness Prescription.  Don’t you think that in all of that research and all of that writing he would have picked up some pointers on how to make others feel accepted and welcomed?  Has he not learned how to treat the little people who have bought his books and attended his seminars and brought him to his great success?

Maybe I caught both Jack and Deepak in the “off” position.  No one can be “on” all the time.  But even the big guys should know that “you never get a second chance to make a first impression.”

If I’m ever in a “star” position—and it’s looking a little late for that—I hope I’ll remember how I want to make people—all people—feel.  And truly, at one time or another, we are each a “star” to someone.

Carl W. Buehner has been credited with saying, “They may forget what you said — but they will never forget how you made them feel.”

He was right—you never forget.

ANOTHER AGING VENTILATION

 

ANOTHER AGING VENTILATION

Elizabeth Willis Barrett…………..March 2014

 

The other day Brad and I drove separate cars to a detailing shop so Brad could leave his car there to be detailed.  There was a slight problem owing to the fact that  Brad hadn’t brought the shop’s address or phone number and thought he could just find it.  But he couldn’t.  It was sort of my fault that he couldn’t find it because there was heavy traffic on Baseline.  Because Brad knows how much I hate to turn left when there is even a moderate amount of cars whizzing and honking by, he turned right which was very thoughtful since I was following him.  But that put him in unfamiliar territory as far as the detail shop was concerned and he couldn’t remember if it was closer to Broadway or Southern.  The lack of knowing made for several turns and backtracking.

Finally I called him (thank goodness, he remembered to bring his phone which isn’t always a given) and said I would just park somewhere and he could tell me where to find him after he knew exactly where he was going.  Trying to follow him in tight circles behind the wheel of a potential weapon didn’t seem like a very safe thing in my opinion.

“No,”  he said.  “It’s here somewhere.”

Finally he did find the detailer after stopping a couple of times and squinting at the road sign to see if it said Broadway or Southern.  And, by the way, which comes first—Broadway or Southern?  It’s funny how things like that escape your mind at times.  Again, I will take some of the responsibility for getting lost.  No, I will take a whole bunch of the responsibility, since my left turn phobia made him come at the shop from a different angle.  What’s a little more guilt added to the great weight of guilt that I insist on carrying everywhere I go?

When he finally left his car with the attendant and got into mine he was very frustrated.

“I don’t want to be old,” he said.  “That’s what an old man does: wanders aimlessly and slowly and shuffle-y looking for things.   I don’t want to act like that.”

“Neither do I,”  I said as I pawed through my purse, forgetting what the object of the pawing was.

“See,” he said.  “That’s what your mother used to do.”

“What?” I asked.

“The rummaging.  The rifling through your purse. That’s what your mother used to do.”

He was right.  I felt just like her as I pawed with seemingly no purpose.  A definite sign of aging.  What a pair we are, Brad and me!

“Aaaaaaaaaaa!

The drawbacks of the aging process  hit me once in a while and I just have to vent.  I feel like Diane Keaton’s character in the movie And So It Goes when she splays her arms and says with an emphatic grimace, “I’m sixty-five.  Uuuuuuuuuu!!!”

I do not like growing old.  There must be a better way.  I know, I should be glad to still be here on this fabulous earth and I should enjoy every minute and relish the now.  But aging is a big deterrent to relishing the now.

The other day I found a hair on my chin.  A dark hair!!! What was that doing there?  I have always been blond.  How long had it been growing?  How many people saw it before I finally did?  What would make a hair grow on a chin that has never had a hair before?  Weird things happen as you grow old.

Another sign of my own aging happened when I bent over to pick up something off the carpet.  I couldn’t tell what it was and I turned it over and over until I felt my mother slipping into me again.  She had done that action often in her old age, turning something over and over in slow motion trying to determine what treasure was indicated by a scrap found on the carpet.

Slow motion is becoming more of a companion to me and not an amiable one.  What happened to my drive, my focus, my hitting the deck running?  And weight that used to roll off without much trouble has become attached to my middle and it seems to delight in giving me a backache.  Arthritic thumbs add to my annoyance.

If age was honored and respected and not snickered at, it would help a little.  This might be a good time to move to old-people-loving China.  Hopefully, Brad will go with me.

NAPOLEON DYNAMITE??

NAPOLEON DYNAMITE??

Elizabeth Willis Barrett………..January 21, 2015

The first time I saw the movie Napoleon Dynamite was in Rexburg, Idaho, with my husband Brad, and my two youngest—Kyle and Allison—who were in Rexburg going to school.  We had traveled all the way from Arizona for a short visit and had some hours to kill.  And they were definitely killed in my opinion.  Shot through.  Kyle and Alli had seen the movie already and couldn’t wait to watch it with us.  There had been so much hype about it that I was ready to have a great experience with half my family.

It turned out to be a very slow day at the movie theater.  We got in our seats after the film had started and since we were the only ones in that particular theater, they started it all over again just for us.  Kind.  If they had started from the ending and played the whole thing backwards, it would have had the same effect on me.  I was completely unimpressed and once again my lack of humor sense was made manifest.  That was truly the dumbest movie I had ever seen—up to that point.  I think Nacho Libre would create a very close race if the two should run a 1/2 marathon together.

Kyle and Allison kept looking at us to see our reaction to this very unorthodox film.  Most of the time they could hear Brad’s reaction because he was laughing uncontrollably.  If there had been anyone else in the theater they might have asked him to keep it down.   But I must have seemed like a matronly Queen of Hearts at a quilting bee.  Not a guffaw, not a snicker, not a smile escaped my pierced lips.  I think my left eye brow was raised during the whole pitiful showing.  The movie wasn’t funny.

Again, as I have been made very aware of on many occasions, I was most likely in the minority.  I think I am in a perpetual minority.  I would be standing practically alone in a group of 1000 people if we were to choose sides of a room according to our likes and personalities in a variety of categories.

“All those who like chocolate go to the right side of the room.”  I’d be left alone on the left.

“All those who prefer Barbra Streisand to blue grass music go to the right side of the room.”  I’d be left alone on the left.

“All those who love to stand outside and chat rather than clean out a closet, go to the right side of the room.”  Again, I’d be left on the left.

This would not be a good thing to do on a boat.  The weight wouldn’t be balanced.

As we came out of the theater at the end of N.D., the sweet girl at the candy counter asked how we’d liked the movie.  In answer, I turned around and waved a bemused hand at Brad.  He could barely walk because he was bent over in hysterics with Kyle and Allison laughing, too, mostly at him.  He loved Napoleon Dynamite.

When attributes were being handed out in the pre-earth life, I believe Brad was first in line at the Sense of Humor counter.  He can roll into a belly laugh quicker than anyone I know and at the slightest provocation.  I was probably queuing up for other qualities (I’m not sure which, at the moment) and totally missed out on the Humor distribution.  My Dad and sister are wonderful at seeing the funny side of things.  They must have been in that humor line.  You’d think they would have let me have cuts or something since I probably wasn’t patient enough to wait behind 4,376,000 other humor wanna-haves.

I wish now I had put in more effort to obtain a sense of humor because laughter can imbue the soul.  Maybe a little humor blew off the counter in my direction, though, because I do love to laugh with friends and family.  And even though Napoleon Dynamite did nothing for me, I once laughed right out loud in Three Amigos.

GET OUT OF MY MORNING!

Elizabeth Willis Barrett………….January 13, 2015

I love mornings.  Not that I have gotten up early enough lately to claim their full benefits.  When I’ve had to catch a very early flight to Seattle or Salt Lake or take someone to a 5:00 am job appointment, I realize how much I am missing by not getting up at 5:00 every morning.  Getting to bed in a timely manner to allow a 5:00 am reveille hasn’t happened for a while.  But it really is a shame to miss those early hours when the sun is beginning to stretch and blaze its promise across the sky.  It is so beautiful and renewing.  To me, morning is when the vital doings of the day must be done. As the day moves along toward sunset, it seems to collapse and press down on all the remaining minutes leaving them rather unproductive.

If I had my way, I would wake up to an empty house with all other occupants hard at work somewhere else.  I wouldn’t need to help anyone find a missing phone or satchel or point out that the peanut butter is right where it has been for at least the last 10 years.  I wouldn’t hear the radio blaring out heart deflating accounts of kidnappings and murders and political sniveling.  My psyche is so fragile that an overheard bit of bad news acts like a stiff scrubbing brush to my good humor and sense of well being.  And although I really love to hear new insights on religion and the way of the country gained by deep spousal study, morning is not the time to pour any new found truths into my brain.  In the morning, the mixer of my cerebrum is whirring with other ingredients and extra bits and pieces are likely to get flung aside, my congeniality with them.

In the morning, I’m trying to concentrate on my weekly list.  It is a very long to-do list that I usually write out during Church on Sunday. I want to get on with the day and that list without any interruptions.  That is probably a very selfish desire.  But I’m just trying to put on my own breathing mask first so I can help others put on their breathing masks, so to speak.  And to me, that means getting certain things done in the morning.

For instance, if I don’t “stretch with Jane” before 8:00 am, the opportunity for that particular get-it-done item will be gone for the day. Without this stretching (which I have tried to do every morning for about 30 years since I discovered the wonderful DVD of Jane Fonda called “Start Up”) my aging body will just quit moving all together, and what help would I be to anyone then?

Next, I need to be totally ready for the day—showered, dressed, blown, curled, contacted, made up.  It is very deflating to look in the mirror at mid-day and realize that several of these points didn’t get addressed.  Of course, by then even the addressed items must be re-addressed.  If someone wants me to do something—after my morning, of course—I want to be ready.

There are about ten things I really want to get done each day and morning is the best time to do them.  Without distractions, I could easily get them all done by ten or eleven and then I would be eager to get on with the interaction and saving of others.  Not that anyone will need saving by then or want to interact either.

Again I find that I am not only thinking outside the box but outside the universe of my family and friends who are ready to engage way before I am.  Maybe they’ve already secured their own breathing masks and they are trying to help me with mine.  As usual, I could use some help. That universe has tried for years to teach me that warm, wonderful people are far more important than crossing items off my lists. So, come back into my mornings and my days and my nights and I will try to be more discreet as I’m making a list and checking it twice.